


Rapacious

by Poetic_Poltergeist



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Ashbury is sad, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Everyone is miserable, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, M/M, McCullum is having emotions, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Not even once, Post-Canon, Reid is a brat, Slow Burn, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts, Swansea has issues, Vampires, Vampiric Hunger, pacifist reid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:27:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23673052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poetic_Poltergeist/pseuds/Poetic_Poltergeist
Summary: January 1919, Jonathan Reid managed to defeat the Red Queen without taking a human life. Yet, the desire to drink and destroy persists, resulting in a downward spiral and deterioration of the humanity Reid had clung to for so long. His poor behaviour forces him to take a sabbatical, causes strife with his beloved Lady Ashbury, and attracts the attention of a particular hunter.**Edit: Added fan art for chapter 8.
Relationships: (one-sided), Elisabeth Ashbury/Jonathan Reid, Geoffrey McCullum/Jonathan Reid, Jonathan Reid/Edgar Swansea
Comments: 26
Kudos: 97





	1. The Walk

**Author's Note:**

> Reid is hangry and takes it out on everyone.

Running his fingers through his hair in frustration, Jonathan slammed his book shut. He had not been home for a full two nights when he found himself infuriated by Avery anxiously hovering over him.  
“No, Avery. I am not hungry,” Reid snapped. It was a lie; his uncontrollable hunger never ceased.  
“Is there anything else you need, Mr Jonathan?” Avery asked.  
“I’m afraid not,” the once well-mannered doctor all but hissed at the butler.  
“If you do need anything, sir, just ask,” bowing his head, Avery left the room.

Usually, his hands were surgically steady, now his fingers shook as Jonathan attempted to return to his book. He had hoped to for some peace at his family home but there was none for the vampire to find. Waking hours were wrought with constant offers of food and panicked glances, during the day his sleep disturbed by knocks at his door. Avery’s excuses for the disturbances varied from concern to requests from his mother. Jonathan suspected the latter was fabricated to force Jonathan from bed, for his mother never recalled asking for him, nor seemed lucid enough to have done so. The butler meant well, believing Reid’s unusual sleep schedule and refusal of food were linked to a sort of depression or aliment. 

Work at Pembroke became torment as he was constantly pelted with the comments of concerned collogues fretting over his health. Although he understood his dull eyes, sunken cheeks, and bloodless complexion crossed with the endless nightshifts alarmed his fellow physicians, he found himself answering them with increasingly crass retorts. A few either bit back or dropped the subject, while others regarded his attitude as yet another symptom of an exhausted and overworked doctor.

“Jonathan, they are merely concerned for your wellbeing,” Swansea attempted to soothe his overwrought sire. “They are not aware of our unusual condition.” Reid scoffed at the man’s eagerness to point out their shared ‘condition’.  
“What do you suppose I do about it?” he growled. “You, clearly, do not excite worry,” his words had more bite than he intended.  
“Well, you have not exactly been yourself as of late. I must agree, you have been visibly deteriorating since returning from Scotland,” Swansea spoke softly, “Perhaps you should take some time off to gather yourself?” he was nearly pleading with his collogue.  
“I am fine, Edgar,” Reid hissed as he stood, leaning over the smaller man sitting at the desk.  
It would take several more conversations for Swansea to convince Reid to finally accept he may need time off.

Standing, Jonathan abandoned the leather-bound novel and went to retrieve his heavy winter coat and cape. Idly staring at a book and reminding himself of his deplorable situation did little to ease his nerves, perhaps a walk around London would clear his head. Fleeing Aubrey’s pestering would be a relief, anyway.

Opening the door, Reid was immediately assaulted by the brisk January air. He was never particularly fond of winter, and while there was no longer a risk of death from being out in the cold, the chill sunk into his dead bones a way it never had when he was alive. 

Cursing himself for not wearing gloves, he stepped into the night.

—

Leather boots trudged through the snow and ice as Reid, like the predator he was, stalked the streets for weak and weary souls possessed by disease. London’s dreadful weather did nothing to aid his mood, but he was able to soothe himself with the dark silence; as much as he despised the snow for making his movements slower while soaking the pant leg of his expensive trousers, he could not help but be glad he was no longer in the muddy trenches of France trying to keep half-frozen and half-dead soldiers alive. He supposed that he would never not grateful for being anywhere other than in a trench.

Glancing down the street where Elizabeth’s house stood, Jonathan contemplated trying to visit her before hastily shooting the thought down. He yearned to see her but suspected she was still upset with him, especially after his poor behaviour when they met earlier in the week. Flexing his fingers, he spun away and marched towards Whitechapel. The doctor’s walk was pleasantly quiet, no sniffle nor cough had yet to call to his attention. He had not been wandering the luxurious streets for long, but the silence was appreciated all the same; even, and especially, if his suspicions that it would be short-lived were correct. While it lasted, however, the isolated sound of his steps in the snow provided him with a rhythmic background to his pensive state as he passed through the iron gates into Whitechapel.

Not even Whitechapel’s snow painted streets found cause to ruin Reid’s mood. It was late enough for most residents to be asleep and cold enough for those still awake to seek warmth indoors. The doctor knew the streets were not entirely abandoned as for some, such as Benjamin and Albert Palmer, had nowhere but the streets; others, like Miss Popa, refused to stop working lest they lose the chance to make a profit. Thus, Reid sought those who could not, or refused to, remain indoors. With a quick glance, the vampire could tell he need not bother with the Palmers tonight, huddled in their individual hiding places from the snow. Barrett Lewis was absent from his usual post, seeming to have grown enough sense to realize he would be better off at home tonight. Reid briefly entered the Petersons’ house to visit Harry and treat his persistent fatigue. After checking on Miss Popa, the doctor was about to continue his way when a distant hacking cough stopped him. Scanning the area, he determined the source was Richard Nithercott, undoubtedly in his usual spot, reciting poetry behind St. Mary’s Church.

Already annoyed with the man, Doctor Reid treaded to the idiotic poet whose very presence would most definitely spoil his mood.

\--

A few months ago, Jonathan Reid was seldom cross without good reason, but recently he had been watching himself grow increasingly volatile by the day. He despised himself for his harsh words, with no clear answer as to why his mood was taking a turn for the worse.

“Good evening, Mr Nithercott,” Doctor Reid greeted.  
“And good evening to you too, good sir,” replied the poet.

Perhaps it was merely that the season left a bad taste in his mouth. Finding himself treating hypothermic children dressed in rags and modest dockworkers who took nasty slips gave him little sympathy for those who idiotically frolicked in the freezing temperatures without purpose, such as Nithercott did. Despite the defeat of the Red Queen and the skal infestation, the untainted Spanish Flu was still making its final stand. Thankfully, the abhorrent conditions that allowed the disease to seize Europe in the first place ended with the war in November. Even without the previous concerns, illness never slept and a doctor’s work was never done and with winter came frost-bitten, immune-compromised, and starving East End patients, and rambling, arthritic, paranoid, and attention-seeking West End patients.

“Do you need medical attention, sir?” The doctor asked, despite knowing the answer.  
“It may be wise to let you prescribe me something. I don’t feel like I should,” Nithercott answered, deaf to the annoyance the doctor carried.

However, such maladies had not previously caused such annoyance in the doctor; if only he could excuse his behaviour on the terrible winter weather. Reid was hardly stupid, he knew he was a starving dog, snapping at anything that moved. With the majority of skals gone, the vampire was left to survive on disgusting rats. The average body held five litres of blood and a well-fed vampire could drain several in a night. Rodents alone would not keep a vampire fed, not even when the streets were infested with rats. Jonathan had controlled his ache to sink his teeth into his patients, but he feared he would slip his teeth into one eventually.

“I understand your appetite your appetite for words and macabre beauty, sir, but you should be more careful,” the doctor advised once he had treated Nithercott.  
“The nutrition of my mind is more important than my physical health.” The ignorant words tempted the doctor to snap at the man, to show him what a malnourished beast he was tempting.  
“But I appreciate your concern, sir.”

Besides his poor Mary, the good doctor had managed to curve all desires to indulge himself on innocent human blood, even if only outside of battle. In the midst of combat, Reid could hardly help but take a bite out of a Priwen. Later, he would convince himself it was self-defence, to be able to summon spears or shadows, and he had no true intentions of drinking a guardsman dry.


	2. Warm in the Worst Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr Reid runs into Geoffrey McCullum and finds himself covered in bodily fluids.

Strolling through the docks, the vampire flexed his stiff fingers trying to warm them. A side effect of being a bloodless corpse was his inability to control his body temperature, the cold stung his skin and sunk deep into his bones. Looking to escape the chill, he mulled his way towards the Turquoise Turtle. He could no longer drink anything except blood, but he could at least warm his body. 

The Turtle was a safe place where no one dares draw a weapon. Tom Watts was the first welcoming face Jonathan saw the day he awoke soaked in blood, with a bullet hole in his shirt. Disorientated and confused, searching for the monster that made him one, Tom had not turned him away, despite the blood caking his chest and the bestial gleam in his unnaturally pale eyes. Perhaps the barkeep looked upon the vampire and saw the fearful man beneath, or perhaps he made it a point to never turn down customers on appearances. Either way, the man and his bar had become rather fond in Jonathan’s cold, dead heart.

Reid nearly passed over the threshold when a retching sound in a nearby alley dragged him from the warmth of the bar. His frigid bones groaned at him as he directed them towards the sound, the back of his mind cursed himself for never minding his own business. Unfortunately for his cold fingers, the good doctor was well aware that a drunk man passed out in this weather had a better chance of becoming a corpse tucked under a blanket of snow rather than waking up again. As Jonathan approached, he could make out a large figure, as tall as he, if not more, muscular, and broad shoulders hunched foreword, one arm pressed against the filthy brick of the wall, leaning on it to remain upright. The stench of alcohol and vomit assaulted Reid’s senses, inciting him to cover the lower portion of his face with his wrist.

“Sir, are you alright?” he called out as walked, not particularly in the mood to be punched by a startled drunk man who had not heard him approach.  
“Fuck off,” the too-familiar Dublin accent slurred back.

Doctor Reid wanted nothing more than to obey the direction to fuck off and turn around, to retreat into the invitingly warm building he was taken from. Instead, he found himself putting a supporting arm around a drunk man who wanted him dead.

“Come on, McCullum, you’re in no shape to be wandering the streets alone,” Jonathan sighed, helping the intoxicated man to his feet. “You of all people should know better.”  
The leader of The Guard of Priwen merely groaned and mumbled incoherently.  
“Where do you live? Can you tell me how to get back to your headquarters?” Reid absolutely did not want to babysit a drunken vampire hunter for the rest of the night.  
“Fuck no, leech!” McCullum managed to slur out, making a poor attempt to shove the doctor away.  
“Oh, so you do recognize me?” Jonathan laughed bitterly. At least it appeared McCullum had no stake to shove into the vampire’s lethargic heart.

Reid doubted Tom Watts would be keen on allowing McCullum and himself renting a room, not after the warning he gave on the first night when went to meet Swansea, no matter the inebriated state of the militant. Not seeing any other option, Reid lugged the incapacitated hunter to the abandoned apartment across the street he occasionally made use of.   
McCullum’s frequent attempts to escape the doctor’s grasp mostly consisted of insults and clumsy shoving. Reid wondered how much alcohol the Irish man poured down his throat in order to achieve his current drunken stupor.

Guiding the Leader of Priwen to a vampire’s hideout was more difficult than it ought to have been. Regardless, he persisted and leapt through the shadows onto the balcony. Reid was attempting to guide the boneless hunter, unaccustomed to the sensation of such a jump, back to his feet when the ragdoll man suddenly tensed and vomited. Whether it had been the lurch of the jump, his intoxication, or both, Reid did not know. What he did know was he was suddenly covered in the repulsively warm and slick contents of McCullum’s stomach. Had he not been a doctor used to being covered in various bodily fluids, the stench alone would have made Reid gag. The acrid scent clung to his shirt and coat, soaking them as he felt the unpleasant sensation of the warm wet against his skin.

Opting to simply remove the source of the vomit from his person, the doctor dragged McCullum inside the abandoned apartment and tried to position him on the bed, which McCullum did not seem very fond of based on his poorly aimed kicks and punches. The hunter reached into his coat, and before Reid could process what McCullum was doing, the air was forced from his body as something sharp was stabbed into his body.

Blood and pain blossomed from Reid’s abdomen, seeping through his already-slick-with-vomit-shirt, unfurling like a crimson rose. 

Ah, there is the stake.

In a snarl his beastly teeth were bared, intent on sinking into the hunter, his assaulter, who had sunk a metal-tipped stake deep into his intestines. Monstrous claws and fangs ached, begging to return the favour, to sink into the Irishman and tear through his muscles, longing to claw and scratch the scarred tissue. His fangs sung to be used, to bite, to drink, to lap at the wounds his claws made. Oh, how beautifully the hunter’s body would unravel under his claws, skin peeled away, muscle shredded into a sweet pulp, the tempting red sea of blood parted and drained to enter Reid instead. Hunger to turn the hunter to prey, to turn prey into slick human viscera coating the rotting wooden floor, leaving only discarded bones to buried should he be found.

The good doctor had only the intent of assisting Mr McCullum when he was betrayed. Would it be so long to slip into the monster that lurked below the surface, to show the hunter what he was capable of?

Instead of embracing the terrible urges crawling through his starving veins, Reid flung McCullum onto the bed, disturbing the dust that had settled upon the sheets and sending a cloud around him. Reid became, and joined, the shadows across the room, a fanged snarl still painted on the doctor’s face. 

“Leech,” McCullum hissed, watching as Reid reached into his belly and removed the wood that split his guts before tossing the bloodied stake into the floor to join the puddle of blood.   
“You missed,” Reid chided, recomposing his gentleman’s facade. “I’m afraid my heart is up here,” he grinned, pressing two clawed fingers to the pounding organ inside him.  
If Geoffrey McCullum had a repose, he had not the time to speak it, for the vampire had disappeared from the dilapidated room into the night.

Confident he won the battle, McCullum allowed himself to descend into sleep as the sun rose over the horizon. The hunter was wrong, of course, by retreating Reid was victorious, but for now, McCullum slept in his misplaced glory. He would not realize his loss until he awoke at noon.


	3. Progeny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Swansea has eyes for only one man.

Pulling his sticky clothes away from his body did little to help uncomfortable Reid’s situation, for as soon as he released his once-white shirt, the fabric would return to clinging to his chest. To make matters worse, the initial warmth had left the fluids that drenched him, nearly freezing the mess to his body. If he thought it was repulsive when warm, it was tenfold worse when cold. Walking the whole way to West End in such a state would not be pleasant, nor would encountering any of his neighbours, prone to judging a man regardless of his profession as a doctor. Making a detour to Pembroke and changing into the clothes he kept in his office for situations like this was hardly a difficult decision and the promise of fresh clothes hastened the doctor’s pace.

Jonathan was finding himself unable to maintain his calm demeanour now, hard jaw clenched, wanting to snap and bite, and claws tense, making lesions as they curled into his palm. He walked with intensity and anger oozing from him. No muscle in his corpse was at ease. Each step was thrown at the ground with a tremendous force, shoving him forward. Glacial eyes were cruel, ablaze with fury. His message in body was clear, he was not to be crossed, lest he unleashes an unholy terror upon any who dare try.

Not wishing to encounter patient nor staff in his current state, Reid slipped around the side of the building and onto the scaffolding on his window. Hardly expecting anyone to have found their way through his locked door and preoccupied with the condition of his clothing, Reid began stripping off his ruined clothes. Once he had peeled his ruined shirt off his chest, he finally glanced up to find the brown eyes of his progeny watching him from beside the door.

“Edgar,” he snarled, “What exactly are you doing in my office?”

Breaking his glassy stare away from Reid’s chest, Swansea redirected his eyes to look into his maker’s face, seeking any hint of kindness or affection. Jonathan’s expression was anything but, brow tightened pointing inward, fierce eyes emanating outrage, his lips twisted into a snarl, pulled back to present the smaller man with his monstrous teeth. Reid’s entire person exuded threat – no a promise – of violence, his fearsome expression alone could make his progeny wince. Still, his appearance was nothing compared from the sudden torrent of emotion that overflowed from the maker’s mind to his creation. Since turning, Swansea had felt Reid’s thoughts and feelings ebb into his own. He expected this, having studied vampires and how deep the blood they shared ran but nothing prepared him for the sea he was drowning in now. 

The presence of his maker approaching the hospital excited Swansea, inciting him to greet Reid in his office when he arrived. Doctor Reid and his pioneering steps in his field had excited Swansea before they even met. He had leapt at the opportunity to attend some of the brilliant doctor’s lectures where he the subject enthralled him almost as much as the handsome doctor did. It was nigh impossible to fall for Doctor Reid, with deep ocean eyes that Swansea was more than happy to drown in. During these lectures, he found himself subconsciously memorising the doctor’s every feature; his polite demeanour, the power to conduct and captivate a room, defined facial features intensified by his sharply groomed beard. Even his imperfections were breathtaking, the scar across the bridge of his nose and the crooked cartilage only added to the doctor’s attraction, drawing curiosity and attention to the rest of the magnificent man. To discover the Apollo had become a creature of the night was electrifying, making his knees week and his chest flutter, an effect only intensified by time and the blood they now shared.

Appearing suddenly in a cloud reeking of blood and bile, Reid had not noticed his progeny and immediately began undressing. First, his scent and messy appearance had frozen Swansea, followed by a warmth stealing his words upon seeing his maker’s bare chest. Overtaken by the image before him, he had not noticed foul mood Reid radiated, not until it slammed into his head like a train wreck, unravelling any sense of coherence and demanding compliance. Overwrought emotions, red, hot, viscous, like blood were pouring into Swansea, clawing at his skull, sloshing in his stomach, drowning his lungs, and choking any semblance of reason. If he needed to breathe, he would find his breaths too few and too short. 

Yet, despite his beastly state, Reid was a stunning creature, Swansea benevolent, god-like creator, and that gave him the gift of speech. 

“I sensed your imminent arrival and came to greet you. Jonathan, what happened? You are in quite the state.”  
“Geoffrey McCullum threw up on me and stabbed me,” Reid’s explanation was dull, so unlike the rest of him.  
“McCullum? Did he come after you?” Swansea took a step forward as if searching his sire for wounds that needed attending.  
“No, Edgar,” he hissed, either answering his colleague or admonishing him for approaching.

Swansea had opened his mouth to speak when Reid had abruptly cut him off to recite the preceding events of the evening while he went about cleaning his coat and disposing of his ruined clothes. He could feel Swansea’s gaze on him, a result of fear and something far less innocent. Not that the other man’s interest surprised him, Edgar was hardly as effective at hiding his feelings for Jonathan as he thought he was. Making the doctor, his progeny only confirmed his suspicions. Reid wondered if Swansea was aware his maker could feel his temptations rolling off him in buzzing waves or if he was ignorant enough to assume his pathetic efforts to veil his feelings were enough to trap his thoughts.

Hanging his now damp, but clean, coat over the back of a chair, Reid drew close enough to hear a soft sigh from the hospital administrator. He quickly stepped away and began searching for a fresh shirt. The insufferable stench of vomit clung to his skin like the damp fabric did and every minute that passed in such unpleasantry was threatening to excite his initial rage at discovering Swansea’s gaping mouth. 

“I do not see why you insisted on helping him; he would happily let one of us die,” Edgar unhelpfully pointed out.  
“He would have frozen. I took an oath to help people, which I intend to follow,” ‘unlike you,’ Reid added bitterly to himself.  
“McCullum is a violent man. Priwen threatens the safety of London on a nightly basis; they have sworn to kill every vampire in London!” Swansea argued.  
“Only because vampires hunt and kill innocents every night, Edgar.” The good doctor’s patience was fading. “You of all people have no right to refuse anyone help.”

Arguments like this ignited regret in Jonathan’s stomach. Edgar Swansea had seemed like a good man when they met, even if he caused the skal epidemic, Reid convinced himself that his intentions were to help and heal, but ever since his turning he seemed to stray further from ethics for the sake of his experiments. Wondering if such blatant disregard for others was always one of Swansea’s traits and he just had not seen it before made Reid want to strangle the man. He busied his fingers with buttoning his shirt.

“Enough of this nonsense, Edgar. Leave my office, I do not intend to stay and bicker with my ignoble progeny over the value of any man’s life,” Reid snarled, approaching the smaller man and leaning over him, prompting a trembling Edgar to begin backing up. Filling his progeny’s head with threats and his anger, he was able to guide him towards the door.

Once he was past the threshold of his office, Jonathan slammed the door in Edgar’s face and secured the lock. 

Growling to himself, he aggressively threw on his spare coat and fled the hospital, forgetting to water his dear Lisa in his rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love is an open door and Reid just slammed it in Swansea's face.
> 
> Poor Lisa, utterly forgotten.


	4. Bonds

Walking was never one of Jonathan’s pastimes in life, but in his death, he found himself full of contemplation between destinations. As a doctor he was always quite pensive, observation and analyzation were his second nature, but he never before took the time to lull things over without busying himself with yet another task and. Since turning Reid found walking helped him ease his restless thoughts. Contemplations during his walks had him realize how delicate everything was; London seemed to be glass to his immortal eyes. Everything that had happened, everyone, he had met, they were all tightly intertwined, pulled taught by those around them. Should one fall, the entire structure would follow, crumbling into a frayed string and broken porcelain. Brangan spoke the truth when she said their hospital was the last line of defence against the flu, natural or otherwise; without its care, East End would shatter. Pembroke sat precariously upon the shoulders of a man whose unethical experiments caused a disaster, which prompted Myrddin to create a champion out of Reid. When Priwen caught wind of Swansea’s involvement, they tortured him, carving, cutting, burning his candlelight life to the wick, until he was moments away from blinking out; only to be saved by Reid, ignited with different flame, the kind he had been a moth to.

Turning had released something in Swansea, who always had a flicker of too-much-curiosity and too-little-foresight. Now, Jonathan could see how that flame grew too hot, how it threatened to engulf everything in its way. Any attempts to show his ‘friend’ how dangerous he was becoming were swallowed by the ignorant blaze. If Edgar was so eager to break his oath as a doctor, how eager would he be to devour innocent lives as a monster? The good doctor Reid could barely fend off his thirst, how could he expect someone as weak as Swansea to do the same?

With Aloysius Dawson the choice was clear. Ignorant to suffering, selfish and power-hungry, if made into Jonathan’s progeny, he would destabilize the careful balance the kept London from tumbling to the ground and shattering like a broken teacup. No weapon or wall would save humanity from disease; it would trap them like rats, turning the districts into Petri-dishes.

Regretting his progeny was not an obstacle Reid had planned for in that rotting basement, with his closest ally slumped-over dying, spilling his blood and secrets. The vampire had decided to share his blood, which his friend drank too eagerly as if the cold and thick fluid Jonathan had stolen from rats and skals was ambrosia. In the end, he had to be shoved away. Reid understood Pembroke would suffer and fall to ruin without Swansea. He thought that having the life beaten out of him after witnessing what his experiments wrought would ward him from tampering with the living and unliving again. Jonathan has been angry; angry enough he had half the mind take to Swansea’s life himself, to indulge in his terrible thirst and consume his beloved collogue, but he was a doctor before a monster.

From the precipice of the disaster, it was clear, and Jonathan still wanted to jump.

“Logical thinking only,” the doctor mumbled to himself, an echo of the night he slaughtered his sister, pressed a gun to his chest, and pulled the trigger. Now, he pressed his frozen fingers together and pulled on the spare overcoat that it was much too cold for. 

Biting hunger and cold were forgotten in favour of his darker thoughts he tried to forget. The memory of the gun shuttering, the bullet releasing directly into his body, digging through his lungs, nicking his heart, before leaving his body for the mattress. Had he not been dead already, his disgraceful display would have made sure of it. War had threatened his life, and for so long he had only the mind to preserve it, yet he was quick to let guilt and bullets butcher him once he was finally home. Suicidal patients he could handle, but not his shameful temptations.

West End was shroud in the same silence the doctor had left it in, but the peace it brought gave way to suffocating awareness. Mary was dead, his ailing mother would doubtlessly follow soon, the Morrigan was slain, the epidemic she clung to fading, and Elizabeth was at last free of her curse, was it not time for the nightmare to finally end?

Warmth seeped into his bones like his blood soaking the sheets, as he entered the Reid Manor. Golden candles did little to ease the doctor’s overwrought mind; thus he let out a breath, trying to release the tightness in his chest. Thinking terrible things was not becoming of the gentleman he pretended to be.

Climbing up the stairs, a quiet voice he would not have heard had he been human drew his attention. Flickering into the world without colour, he peered through the walls at the glowing circulatory systems of his mother and Avery. Before he could think better of it, he veiled himself in shadows and sprung to the top of the stairs, peering into the ajar door to his mother’s room.

“Will our prodigal son be joining us on holiday this summer?” Emelyne Reid asked, eyes on some ghost of her memory only she could see.  
“I am afraid I do not know,” Avery answered, despite that the question was presumably directed at the long-dead Aubrey Reid. The porcelain teacup and saucer he was holding were chattering, a result of his trembling hands. Jonathan had not noticed how the loyal servant’s hands shook as he approached the end of a lifetime spent looking after the Reid family.

“Jonathan has changed returning from France. Fighting for so long and returning to an empty home has not been easy for him,” Avery’s tone was forlorn. He knew the woman he attended would not understand. Reid felt a twitch of guilt in his dead heart. All the butler wanted was to care for the remaining members of the family he swore his life to, and he was repaid with Jonathan snapping at him and being forced to watch Emelyne slowly lose her mind. The latter of which Jonathan took the blame for, even more directly than Avery understood.  
“I do hope he does. I would love for Mary’s son to learn from him. Perhaps it would even inspire Jonathan to have children of his own,” she smiled at the thought of her son finally marrying.

“He would have,” the chattering grew as Avery’s voice softened and cracked. Overwhelmed and not wanting to shed a tear before Emelyne, he turned towards the door, quickly approaching Jonathan, who was still veiled in shadows. He had to quickly step away to avoid having Avery crash into him. He had no idea how he would explain his sudden ability to disappear from sight to the ancient butler. 

That was a lie; the creature knew exactly how he could twist the old man’s mind, and how enticingly easy it would be to accomplish. Incapable of perceiving the beast Avery would crash, dropping the expensive teacup and saucer, helpless as they shattered on the floor. Without revealing himself, Reid would drop away, leaving the butler confused, questioning his own sanity. Or, that Jonathan would leave the veil he hid behind a moment before they collided. Porcelain would fall, Avery would have not a moment to process it when the vampire would sink his terrible will into him. The good doctor would then smile, tell the butler he had not just melted away from the shadows; that age was eating at his brain the same way it ate at Emelyne’s. Why stop there? Why not grab Avery by the head, exposing his neck for the beast to sink its fangs into, drinking the man who saw Jonathan as his son. The taste, the rush of delicious and warm red after so long without. He would relish in it, ignoring his mother’s screams until her butler was bloodless on the floor. She would not run, perhaps she would even greet the monster joyfully like he was still the child she had given birth to and raised. Calling him her ‘prodigal son’ as he tore away her life. Would she realize the monsters her children became in her last moments?

Thoughts of butchering the people who raised should him have made Jonathan feel sick, not hungry.


	5. Impossibly Delicate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Reid and Lady Ashbury revaluate their relationship.

Standing before the great wooden door to Lady Ashbury’s manor, the good doctor found himself frozen in place. Unable to knock, Jonathan was a greek statue, marble wrist drawn back, white knuckles clutched, his chest heavy and made of stone. The courtship he and Elizabeth had shared was remarkable in a sense, for it was entirely unremarkable. Little more than chaste kisses and cold fingers were shared between the two while their shattered skulls emptied emotions before the other. Reid could not help but think they would have been better off as friends; their feigned romance fizzled out, leaving irritability and avoidance. Perchance it was the overwhelming pressure exerted by societal norms that pressed man and woman together. 

Before the stone spell cast on Jonathan could slip away, the door was slowly opened by the sombre lady herself. Braided hair the colour of fire, of the blazing passion she carried, was pinned neatly to the back of her head. Reid could not recall ever seeing her at ease or with her hair caressing her shoulders. Stormy eyes were tinged with pink, not from an ekon’s overindulgence but bloodshot from sadness.  
“Your pulse sounded lonely,” Elizabeth delicately answered the question Jonathan had not asked as she ushered him inside.

Hanging his coat in wistful reticence, he was reminded of his usual one, still draped on a chair in his office from when he hung it to dry after he washed Geoffry McCullum’s vomit off it. A melancholic smile graced his face when he recalled the state the hunter was in that night. However, it dissolved when he turned to follow the forlorn Ashbury to the sitting room.

Outside the other door was Charlotte, undoubtedly hoping to eavesdrop on her mother and the doctor. Jonathan wondered if the girl was aware the ekons could see and hear her blood thundering from behind the walls. Had the suffragette’s mother allowed ignorance of a vampire’s awareness of her circulatory system, or had her mother permitted pressing her ear to doors on occasion? The doctor had no doubt that Ashbury would find behaviour such as eavesdropping as endearing in her daughter.

Clutching a porcelain teacup between his pallid fingers, Jonathan sat before his beloved Elizabeth with his head bowed in submission. Neither spoke, their trepidation to break the silence was thick and palpable, weighing on them and saturating the air like a humid summer day. Sucking on his sallow cheeks, Reid tried to translate his thoughts into the words neither creature wanted to say. 

Remembering the purpose of the delicate white cup, filled with the dark brew and shredded leaves, Jonathan awoke his sleepy diaphragm, welcoming the warm and earthy aroma of the tea as it resonated through his mouldy trachea, dusty bronchi to his obsolete alveoli. His chest cavity felt more hollow than usual as if he had already been crying for an eternity. The smell tickled his parchment lungs and compass heart, starred with old scar tissue and young lacerations like a map of constellations. 

Caring for Lady Ashbury was easy; at one point, Jonathan was under the impression they were made for each other. However, their relationship was born amid a disaster and carved out of broken hearts with a clumsy sword. They fell into each other quickly, inexperienced and hopeful for a chance to weld something from their misery. Both parties were damaged from the start, with the misguided belief their interlocked arms could heal the cracks in their porcelain shells. 

How could it be expected to last? 

Wounded by war, Reid’s scars hadn’t healed when the stitches and scabs were torn open yet again; but instead of the machinations of man in the form of bullets and shrapnel that carved into his mortal flesh before, his humanity was shredded to ribbons by the animalistic claws and teeth. The doctor’s life bled out on the London streets as a cruel god turned him into a valiant white knight, destined to take, or be taken by, the Red Queen and her pawns in an ancient game of chess. Waking up dead and disorientated he had clawed his way from the mountain of corpses he was apart of. The only thought in his skull was the desire to drink, and he did; in his confusion, he sunk his teeth into his precious sister and drained her life away. When he had come to his senses, she was cold, and he was being chased. Unarmed, drenched in blood, the defenceless doctor found himself on a battlefield he thought he left in France, with bullets barely missing him, hissing through the air propelled by fire and black powder. Running was his only option, as the streets of Southwark melted into a bloody landscape risen from hell. He had found hope in the form of a machete buried a cadaver, and like King Author proving the power in his blood, Jonathan ripped the blade from its rib cage prison. Hurting people was never painless for the doctor, but war never hears preferences under its demands for blood and fire.

Taking his weapon, the soldier cut down the demons who shot at him. Delirious from his own death and trauma, he paid no heed to human life as he begged for his. Emerging enough to demand answers, he found himself scalded by dawn, his skin erupting and burning away as if the devil himself burned under his skin. Escaping was a skill battle had taught the good doctor, and now he fought to escape his own city, until he found safety in an abandoned house, the dull barrel of a gun pressed to his silent chest.

Awaking as a bloodthirsty monster when he just escaped seemingly endless fighting left Jonathan with a bitter taste on his tongue. Constant conflict regarding his affliction plagued his unlife and clouded his judgment; he was never able to settle into the role forced upon him as his undead brethren could. Heavenly light fought the clouds swarming his head when he met Lady Ashbury. She taught the younger vampire benevolence, how to refrain from constant violence like a typical beast. At a time when the world could never understand, Elizabeth did, and Jonathan loved her for that.

Unaccustomed to romance and his soul calcified from the horrors, the doctor misdiagnosed his love as something it was not. It was fun at first, awkwardly feeling in the dark, the thrill of a relationship, the companionship of a similar soul, but it would not last. How easy it was to fall into place with the Morrigan leering above, now the binds were untied, and the magnetism wore away. Playing a lover when everything else fell to pieces brought him comfort when he so desperately needed it. Neither had the experience, and each held wounded hearts, formulating a dysfunctional relationship. Of course, Jonathan loved Elizabeth, but not in the way he first thought he had. Perchance it was the thrill of a mutual understanding, but he misidentified a platonic love for a mentor for the romantic variety. Never having had courted before, he had no idea how love was supposed to feel. Reid was beginning to question if he was even capable of a romantic relationship. 

Everything around him died; he was a harbinger of misery and demise. Believing he could find joy in another doomed him for heartbreak. Spending his life watching love shatter porcelain hearts did nothing to prepare him. His mother slipped from her pillar of creativity and grace when her husband left. For as far as Jonathan was concerned, Aubrey Reid could make as many excuses as he wanted, but the truth was he was a coward who abandoned his family. Friends hardly were better, the dear Venus Crossly shimmered under the sun, but in the dark she was as toxic and vile as any monster, slipping her poison into her husband’s cup so she could end his paranoid ravings. 

“Jonathan, I’m sorry,” Elizabeth spoke softly, keeping her eyes on the teacup.  
“You have no reason to apologize,” the doctor quickly attempted to soothe his mentor.  
“I rushed us; I’m afraid I ran us into a wall,” her nails brushed against the cup nervously. A stone caught in Reid’s throat, threatening to make his enamel facade crack into a sea of tears if he dared to speak. He merely nodded, wishing he had the courage to hug the woman he treasured. “I love you dearly, and I don’t want to lose you, but we cannot continue like this,” she broke first. Words swallowed by the sobs that threatened to claw their way from his throat, the doctor could only nod despondently.

Eventually, like a midnight waltz on a minefield, the pair of corpses managed to spill their souls and maintain their insides, speaking heartless reality without breaking each other’s, untangling themselves from their twisted and knotted heartstrings without unravelling entirely. It was agreed upon that the romantic idealization they had forced upon themselves had to end. Deciding to remain close without the conventional mess of an uncomfortable courtship binding them together like teenagers betrothed involuntarily, the room cleared into that of friends and laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are the coal that keeps my steam engine heart writing.  
> Constructive criticism is always welcome; I strive to improve.


	6. Leeches Don't Drink Tea

Turning out of Ashbury’s courtyard, the unearthly shrill scream of a feral skal grabbed Jonathan’s attention. Since the epidemic responsible for creating so many had ended, their numbers had been dwindling; he used to fight hordes of the undead each night he tried to stroll across London, now he was lucky to find any. Starving as he was, it would be foolish to lose the rare opportunity to sink his aching fangs into another vampire’s neck.

In the park across the street, a skal crouched over the bloody remains of some poor sod who chose the wrong place and time to take a walk. The creature feasting upon the body was falling apart at the poorly stitched seams, and its sinewy flesh covered in festering wounds. What little remained of the clothing it died in was hardly more than rags, an eyeball burst out of its cavernous socket; it was indeed a sorry beast. 

The greater predator approached the skal silently, his own nocturnal vision able to pierce through the all-consuming shadows and make out the nightmarish scene before him. Kneeling before its victim and reaching into the gaping hole in the body’s abdomen, the skal took hold of the internals. Wrapping its rancid fingers around the stomach and squeezing it until the slick lining gave way and the organ burst with a squelch, coating the offender in a mess of the man’s tissues and blood, slimy with bile and the chunky remnants of his partially digested final meal. Squealing with delight, the skal lapped up the warm mess coating its hands before beginning to toy with the gelatinous liver. It was a picture not even penny dreadfuls would dare to paint.

To put it lightly, Jonathan was disgusted, he had never seen this behaviour in a skal before and was eager to put an end to it. Drawing his sword, he carefully approached the sickly beast with the delicate steps of a gentleman. Turning its head, the unearthly yellow glow of the skal’s remaining eye focused on Reid, angered that the cruel doctor dared interrupt its fun. Pulling away from the ruined corpse, it screamed and leapt at Jonathan, but the ekon was faster, sidestepping away and allowing the skal to skid into a bench with the force of its missed attack. Taking his opening, Reid lunged at the disoriented skal and sunk his teeth into the rotting flesh of its neck, draining what little blood the creature had. The taste was exceptionally unpleasant, skals tended to taste sick, but this was rancid; acrid and sour, partially congealed blood sliding down his throat nearly had him gagging, but the overwhelming hunger prevented him from releasing the grotesque creature from his jaws until he desperately swallowed out every repulsive drop.

As Reid pulled away, sticky with the coagulating blood and puss clinging to his lips and beard, he realized someone had crept up behind him while he was eating and was watching him.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?” the vampire asked, reaching into his pocket and retrieving his handkerchief to wipe his face off, not wishing to give the hunter any more reason to see him as more inhuman as he already did. 

“I don’t owe leeches any manners,” Geoffrey McCullum barked back.

“Hm. And what do I owe the pleasure of having the leader of the Priwen Guard breathing down my spine tonight?” Jonathan brushed himself off before standing to face the hunter.

“Heard a skal and I came to end it, but it seems you beat me to it,” the Irishman motioned to the drained body of the skal on the now blood-soaked cobblestone street. The green eyes bore into the doctor like an accusation; as if he could strip down a vampire’s soul with his eyes alone. “Happy to get here second, that thing looks disgusting.”

“It tasted disgusting.”

“I’ll bet it did.”

Reid was surprised by the playful tone of the hunter who so often offered to free him of his head. Idly the doctor wondered if McCullum was playing nice as an apology for covering him in vomit and so rudely shoving a stake into his intestines.

“I’m surprised it survived this long, it was barely held together when I found it,” Jonathan rubbed off some of the intestinal muck from his shoe onto the already filthy street. “It was playing with the organs of its victims as well. Have you seen that before?”

“Can’t say I have,” the hunter moved to examine the bodies. He doubted the leech saw what he said he did, from his experience skals were deranged things that only cared about sinking their teeth into the meat of men. “Shouldn’t you be passing out medicine and saving lives, doctor?”

“I was having tea with a friend,” Reid explained. 

“Having tea?” A cold laugh resonated through the cold night air as the man turned to face the monster. The humour of his voice dissolving under his hatred, as if he suddenly remembered what kind of creature he was speaking with. “Leeches don’t drink tea.”

Reid held steady as he gazed into the other man’s sharp eyes. Since locking eyes in Swansea’s office, the two were locked in a bloody war. Dancing around each other with swords drawn, at first, they clashed violently, sparks flying as the steel blades met, driving weapons into muscle, attacks parried with another of increasing force; a retreat after a foray at a theatre, an attic invasion ending in monstrous victory, an armistice surrounded by tombstones, mercy granted to a drunk soldier in a dark alley. Standing in yet another battlefield, they bore glares like sharpened swords and shot words like bullets punctuated with passion. No matter how unwilling Jonathan was to fight, he could not help but relish in the fray. 

“I am allowed to enjoy the aroma and the company of a friend, McCullum.”

“Oh are you, leech?” Geoffrey strolled towards him in an almost casual manner. A hand on the hilt of his sword evidence of their fight, how little he trusted the beast before him. “You are delusional, pretending to be human. I will allow you to continue pretending to be a gentleman, but when you finish masquerading as a man, and the monster comes out to play, I will hunt you down.”

The threat of giving in to his burning desires weighed on the doctor; the tantalizing scent blood teased him in surgery, surrounding him and whispering syrupy and tempting words, promising satisfaction after an eternity of starvation. Alive he never knew real hunger, in death his stomach ached and his fangs wept; his body writhed as if it would fail should he go a minute more without indulging himself on the crimson ambrosia pumping through every soul he crossed. He was in withdrawal from the sweetest and most addictive drug, more enslaving than opium he lived in eternal thirst, craving to feel a life drained into his lips.

“If that day comes, I shall bow my head before your sword, my dear executioner,” the good doctor hissed, disappearing into the night under a sea of shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are the coal that keeps my steam engine heart writing.  
> Constructive criticism is always welcome; I strive to improve.


	7. Blurring Lines Between Hunter and Predator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Edit: Some lovely fan art was drawn for this chapter!  
> https://tyrantwache.tumblr.com/post/625539028346978304/based-on-this-fanfiction-rapacious-chapter-7-by

Walking the Earth with matching strides predators and hunters wear the same pelt, pursuing their prey before killing it, whether by sinking teeth or bullet into flesh it matters not; what separates them lies beneath their coats. The predator kills by nature, while the hunter does so for sport.

What is more poetic than to be born of a life destined to be consumed, only to awaken from death to become the killer? 

Prey does not choose their role as such, nor does the predator. A hunter commits themself to their purpose and their prey; not accepting that they were predestined to be devoured, but instead, taking a gun and slaying the beast stalking them. If the wolf is not a devil for killing a deer, then the hound is not one for hunting the wolf, for the hungry wolf gorges on the hound. Of course, the hound is born as such, the same is true for the wolf, but a hound is only conceived when wolves become tame. When the predator chose not to kill, the hunter decided not to pursue, even if the wolf will always have the potential to slaughter. 

Jonathan Reid was not born a predator but became one through tragedy; Geoffrey McCullum was not born to hunt him but does so regardless. Nature can be fought, with fang or sword it matters not; Reid refused to kill and therefore, McCullum stopped his chase. It was an affliction for both, a vampire is a slave to thirst, and a hunter cannot trust. However, when no bloodless bodies fell, McCullum was forced to recognise that Reid was true to healing, not to his vampiric nature. A startling realisation that any of the creatures he killed could have been the same as the good doctor left McCullum in the midst of a crisis.

Agonised faces were plastered against Geoffrey's brain; souls no longer human crying that they had committed no evil while they pleaded for mercy. While his father had been a terrible monster, his brother Ian may not have been, yet his head was cut from his body with little hesitation. After a lifetime of being a guardian of humanity, the guilt of being a monster himself made him sick. Thus he made himself sicker with drink to ease his misery. Awaking the next morning in an abandoned apartment with a bloody stake on the floor and a foggy memory of the night before only intensified his distress.

Monsters massacre innocents and heroes eliminate monsters; McCullum had thought he was killing monsters since meeting Eldritch, but if monsters could be innocent, what did that make the hunter? When shown mercy again and again by an undead devil masquerading as a doctor, he no longer could see him as such. Yet, in his drunken stupor, McCullum attempted to stake the beast, to exterminate like vermin. Surely Geoffrey was no saint, but he hadn't thought himself as a devil until meeting the amiable doctor. If one leech could heal how many others were capable of benevolence? How many of those pleading faces were genuine? Was his dear brother Ian's?

"Creatures of deceit," he had tried to convince himself. It was so easy to pretend, to play the valiant knight slaying dragons when his life was oversaturated with bloodshed and an ever-growing pile of corpses. Followed by his ramshackle army, Priwen was the sole protector of London, and their leader was the man the monsters recoiled in the presence of. 

Patrolling alone was never safe, but regardless of the risks, Geoffrey needed an escape. Isolating himself from the rest of the world and everyone he could hurt. He was in the West End when he heard the scream of a Skal, which he ran to with muscles tensing with anticipation and excitement to release in a furious, adrenaline and anger-driven, furry of attacks. 

Appallingly, by the time McCullum arrived, the skal was dangling from the jaws of a much more terrifying beast. The good doctor's glacial eyes were shut in the ecstasy of feeding, jaw flexing as he suckled on the life of the lesser vampire, soft animalistic growls of satisfaction emanating from his throat. 

Under a spell, Geoffrey watched as Doctor Reid greedily drank from the putrid corpse. He knew feeding was somewhat of an intimate experience for the undead, usually stumbling upon a leech in the act gave an apt opportunity for an underhanded attack. Still, the hunter couldn't move if he wanted to, as if mesmerised by the beautiful and deadly monster before him. 

With his meal completed, Reid tossed the body aside and drew the leering Head of Priwen back to reality. McCullum could not help but be enraged, not at the leech but at himself for being so weak, which only intensified his self-hatred. How could he forgive himself for not killing the monster, for seeing him as a benevolent creature, for killing others, for his brother, for his men? Spitting cruel words like an upset fire he hissed and crackled at the vampire until he was left alone in a wisp of shadows and smoke as the flames burned out.

Yelling at the doctor was hardly what he wanted; instead, Geoffrey wished he could just finish the beast, or make sense of why he could not. Finding himself alone at his fault filled his chest with a fit of burning anger. He curled his fingers to his palms as anger threatening to crawl up his throat again and erupt into shouts; until it eventually began melting away quickly leaving only a hollow sadness as he retreated towards Priwen's base.

\---

Arriving at the dilapidated brick building that the heart of Priwen was currently residing in, McCullum scraped and strode by the hordes of his own militants until he was safely barricaded behind his door. Collapsing into his desk chair, he attempted to hide in reports, as his thoughts tripped over themselves like over-eager recruits running themselves into a battle they were unprepared for. 

Rubbing his hand over his forehead, he found himself recalling all those who had eagerly hopped at his heels, hoping to impress or to make a difference, before being struck down by a force they could have never had a chance again. He knew every new recruit was just another body on the pyre, many of which were hardly more than children. Perhaps he was once able to justify destroying a crying child if they had fangs and claws, but how could he have ever justified leading an army of them to their untimely demise?

Training so many to fight, only to watch as they fell like chess pieces in a game that couldn't be won, had taken its toll on the man. If he was a fraction of a second faster, or if he had seen the warning signs, he could have saved them. Regret was gnawing at his insides like rabid beasts he hunted; the guilt consumed Geoffrey McCullum turning the once proud man into a shaking and nervous mess pretending to be himself before his men. Pressure weighed upon Geoffrey's shoulders, shoving him into the earth, pressing his face against the dirt as he desperately tried to claw out of his premature grave.

Mind overwrought, Geoffrey found focusing on the reports he attempted to focus on an impossible escape, and for hours he sat hunched over his desk until his brain no longer screamed and his hand cramped from clutching his pen too tightly. Tossing his work aside, he retreated into his bed and hoped for a dreamless sleep that would never come.

\---

Behind the hunter's eyelids, visions of sharp teeth and cold eyes flitted through his head. Voluptuous rudy lips, gleaming and wet with hungry salvation, parted to a cavernous maw of salient and aquiline fangs. McCullum's dreamy mind floated away from his body, watching as the vicious beast, pressed its supple and sharp mouth to his neck and squeezed its villainous jaw shut. Blood squirted from the punctures it made, painting the ivory teeth and the dripping lips. The devilish eyes blinked in ecstasy as they sipped the life from his bared throat. 

Feeling the wet warmth of a mouth against his neck should have frightened Geoffrey more than it did. Instead, he relished in the sensation of the crimson lips and tongue sliding against his skin, suckling on his life force. Lacking its own warmth, the beast's grip on the man was heated by McCullum's own blood, flowing from his body into the other's veins, threading them together closer than any human act could. Shivering in agonising bliss, far more than any kiss other than this could offer, the hunter could not recall anything but being drunk from. Intimate encounters were few Geoffrey's life as he never had the luxury of the time or security required to make anything meaningful, but the wicked clawed fingers slithering their way over his body made his muscles tremble under his skin as if in response to a lover. Whatever pain he may have felt as his throat was torn away from him with a wet sound was smothered under the euphoria. 

They flowed through each other; he could feel the vampire's hungry thoughts as if they were his own. No, they were his thoughts now, they were no longer two separate creatures but one. Unified at last, prey melted into the predator, McCullum's body becoming part of the monster as he was consumed. His cells became the beast's, and he could not bother to care who was hunting who- it mattered not when they amalgamated into one, blurring the lines between predator and prey.

A trembling hand reached for the back of the beast's head. His palm was tickled by the short spears of hair while his fingers were caressed by the silky strands making up the crest atop its head. Never wishing to separate again, he cradled his other half's skull as he pressed him against his tender throat. The pressure encouraged the monster to drink deeper, to further impale his thrall on his cuspid incisors, snagging his salty skin and pulling it softly. Raptorial animals pressed together, bodies slipping and lacing into one.

From his departed view, he could see the monster relish in its meal. Consisting of lean and powerful muscles, it pressed against Geoffrey as if attempting to share skin as well as blood. Brimming with the rhapsody from its indulgence the beast's eyelids hung open lazily. The scleras were white, broken by the delicate creeks of blood that were beginning to flood outward, irises a glacial blue parted by arctic waves lapping at the ice. At the centre lay the blown pupils, with dancing clouds swirling above the deepest abyss. The beast's skin was pale and cold as if made of snow, a stark comparison to the dark and soft hair Geoffrey was running his fingers through. 

His own body was holding the beast with desperate yearning. Feeling as if he would die should they not further join, McCullum grasped the creature with a strength honed from hunting, calloused fingers grazing the pale expanse of skin. His nails were blunt, so unlike the acute claws on his own body, but they slid into the beast's chest as if it were not solid, drawing his blood from the creature. His breathy chest, so awake next to the comatose lungs in the purlieu rib cage, became sticky with blood, stretching in thick, fleshy threads between them.

Whimpering, Geoffrey felt the beast pull its mouth away, it's wiry facial hair drenched in blood. The glistening fangs slid from their trenches as the silky lips detached themselves. Staying a moment to lap at the puddling blood, the creature nestled the hunter to its chest as if he were made of glass feathers. Dipping into languor, his head fell back as the monster moved its body over his, clutching the limp man by the back with shadowy claws. Leaning its head so their lips brushed, the beast stood still, watching McCullum with faint fascination before surging their mouths together and pouring an onslaught of blood into the hunter. Geoffrey found himself frozen as his blood, having circulated through the monster's arteries rejoined him as the sweet vicious warmth slid past his lips and down his throat. Joined by sinew and blood, their thoughts crashed together and sunk, no longer individuals but instead a single being with two interlocked bodies. 

It was a beauty unmatched, albeit a dying one, for such wonders could only exist in a dream and dreams shattered when their dreamer awakens. 

\---

Stirring until the clouds of sleep parted to the harsh rays of reality, Geoffrey found himself tangled in his bedsheets and soaked in sweat. Feeling as if he was simultaneously frozen and ablaze, he untangled himself from his too-warm bedding and attempted to find a dry part of his mattress. In the haze of awakening, he found himself wrought with confusion and disgust at his own subconscious. How could his dream be about something so repulsive and dreadful, yet be so magnificent?

Being at the mercy of the leech doctor was a memory that made McCullum's skin writhe in shame. Had he been so unworthy, so weak, that not even the blessed blood of King Arthur could grace him with the strength to take down Reid? Was Reid so terrifyingly powerful that not even sunburnt could Priwen's best at his most powerful take him down? He feared the day the leech's true nature would show and he would ravage the world.

To take pleasure while having the life pulled from his body, before another unlife was vomited down his throat was hardly something any hunter would admit to, nonetheless the great Geoffrey McCullum under the claws of one of the strongest fledgelings to ever awake from the dead. Stress often led Geoffrey to strange dreams and nightmares but never had he experienced anything as unusual or strenuous as his current predicament. 

The attempt to make sense of his dreams were cut short by a thundering at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone in this fic is in desperate need of a therapist. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are the coal that keeps my steam engine heart writing.  
> Constructive criticism is always welcome; I strive to improve.


	8. Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

Groaning, Geoffrey dragged himself to the door. Upon turning the door, the bright-eyed red-headed recruit exhaled a wordy assault he had been hardly holding in with bated breath. Priwen’s leader could scarcely understand what he was being told beyond “docks,” “bodies,” and “leech.” 

“Easy McKinley, I haven’t had my coffee yet,” McCullum sighed, rubbing his temples. It was far too early for such nonsense. 

“Sorry, sir! I was just on patrol, and we found a body, killed by a leech!” the boy quivered as if any other sort of murder would be worth noting to a vampire hunter.

“There was a trail, and we followed it to two more corpses. When we reached the last one, the leech was still there, crouched over the body!” McKinley squealed, grasping at the cross he wore over his chest. “Well it stood up, and we realised it was the leech doctor!” 

“Are you positive?” The words came like a growl from Geoffrey’s chest.

“Yes, sir. It was him!”

“Thank you, McKinley,” McCullum sighed, dismissing the over-excitable recruit and returning to his office. Stripping his clothes and running a damp cloth over his aching muscles was a small act of mercy on his mortal form, abused by time and excretion. 

Alas, his body was merely the ancient castle in which the monsters dwelled. Hiding inside his head were the faces of the dead and damned. Gazing upon the sullen face of the recruit, he saw the fallen face of a twin brother slain from a vampire’s claws. Calling them men did not make them so, for they were merely children with swords and guns. Raising lambs, lying to them about the deadly wolves before sending them out to be slaughtered, took a toll on their shepherd. 

Dressing himself took substantial effort, for he had no true motivation to leave the comfort and solitude of his office. Upon exerting the energy to clad himself in pointless fabric, he all but collapsed in his office seat.

“Damnit Reid,” he hissed to nobody in particular. Why was he so surprised? He knew never to trust a leech, yet he had been hopeful that just this one was capable of more good than evil. As predicted, the good doctor snapped and rampaged. What a fool the hunter was, pretending that the chivalrous doctor was anything more than a facade built around a monster.

Despite his efforts to forget, his mind kept straying back to the dream that had plagued him. A deep longing to dig itself a home in the hunter’s chest, a yearning for the slender and wicked creature that freed the world from the plague wrought upon it.

Having killed the moment he awoke, was it indeed a surprise when the good doctor proved to be anything but? Reid had merely been biding his time, sparing the world so he may sink his teeth into it and drain it himself. No matter whatever confliction McCullum felt when he brought his sword to the vampire’s, the beast had to be slain. Failure from his utter defeat laid fresh in the proud Irishman’s mind, sending a shudder of fright and excitement down his spine when he pictured those lovely jaws curling around his tender throat. 

Turning white, his knuckles gripped the arms of his chair in frustration. Thoughts of cutting Reid down filled him with a fit of red hot anger, a desire to lash out and destroy whatever lay in his path. 

God help the good Doctor Jonathan Reid, for Geoffrey McCullum was hunting him once more. 

—-

Making an appearance downstairs shortly before midnight, McCullum found himself forced into the kitchen with a hot plate of food by his second before he could try to disappear into the night in search of Reid. Sighing heavily into the warm steam that floated from the meal, the great leader of The Guard of Priwen gripped his fork and forced himself to shovel food into his mouth under the looming of his second’s watchful eye. Priwen’s second in command was built like a bear and fought like one, but around his men, he had the tenderness of a mother bird. Geoffrey had to swallow several mouthfuls of food under the giant’s gaze before he was left to eat in peace. It was not that the food was bad by any means, the Guard’s meals were warm and hearty and had the ability to cure empty stomachs and hollow chests alike, but he would have much rather skipped eating entirely to hunt the leech doctor. Now that he had started to eat, he could not find it in his power to stop until the plate was cleared. Standing to put the plate in the sink, he was stopped by the overly-cheerful McKinley swiping it from his hands.

“Let me take that from you, sir!” the boy grinned, immediately beginning to wash it. Geoffrey had not noticed the recruit slinking around the kitchen while he ate, which was surprising the boy tended never to shut up. As if McCullum’s thoughts had been a cue, he began to chatter about nonsense to his leader.

McKinley began to tell what was apparently an epic tale, based upon his wild gesturing with sud covered hands, involving a sewer beast and a bratty sniper. Not particularly interested in yet another story he had heard countless times, McCullum was about to leave the boy to his ramblings when amidst a wide-armed motion to describe the size of the beast, the plate slid from his hands shattered onto the floor. Jumping the sound, the startled recruit froze, staring at his mistake in horror, before beginning to profusely apologise with a quivering lip and teary eyes.

“It’s fine lad, come let’s get a broom and dustpan,” he said kindly, guiding McKinley with a comforting hand between his shoulder blades. With a quiet nod, the downtrodden recruit followed his leader, head tilted downwards in shame. 

“S-sorry, sir…” his voice cracked from the sobs he was holding back, hovering behind McCullum wringing his hands in shame as the older vampire hunter grabbed a broom.

“It was an accident. You’ll be alright, and I’m not upset,” Geoffrey sighed, handing the broom to McKinley as he placed the dustpan on the floor and held it in place.

“I just… Can’t do anything right, can I?” the boy sniffled. “I can’t even do dishes without messing up.” The broom shook in his hands.

“Everyone drops things. It doesn’t mean we never pick another plate up.” McCullum’s words were unusually gentle as he soothed the recruit, bowing himself to the ground and reassuring the child everything was alright. Together they swept up the porcelain shards and by the time they had finished McKinley’s patchy cheeks were no longer damp from tears. The light that had once shone behind the boy’s eyes had dulled after his twin’s death, and he became forlorn and melancholic, quick to shut down in a thunderstorm of tears.

“Would you like to join me on a hunt?” Geoffrey asked assuming the boy could use both the ego-boost and experience. 

“Right now? Of course!” The sullen face was quickly replaced with one of pure excitement; the prospect of joining the veteran hunter made the recruit nearly vibrate with anticipation.

\---  
Weapons gathered, and gear donned, the hunters left Priwen headquarters. Skipping ahead was McKinley, his loose scarf trailing behind him carelessly. McCullum strolled behind, wary eyes searching the shadows for monsters.

“Think we’ll find any leeches?” the lackadaisical child asked cheerfully, as if he was wondering about cookies instead of blood-sucking vampires. 

“We’ll see.” Geoffrey hated to admit it, but Reid truly had made his job more manageable. He was somewhat doubtful when he handed over the blood of King Arthur to the doctor, but true to his word, he saved London. Streets that were once infested with skals were now peaceful and quiet.

London was saved from one threat and continued to drown in many others. While each night fewer of the sluggish skals ran amok, dangerous ekons and vulkods continued to take bites out of the city’s human populace. The newest threat was the saviour himself, London’s grand champion had fallen from his pedestal and into a sea of blood and murder. 

“Are you sure it was the doctor you saw?” McCullum asked, glancing over just in time to see the boy light a cigarette and bring it to his lips.

“Yes, sir- Hey!” Geoffrey snatched the cigarette from the boy and tossed it onto the street before pressing the toe of his boot into the bud to put it out.

“You are far too young to be smoking, lad,” Priwen’s leader admonished.

“But-“his attempts to protest were cut off by a low growl resonating from within the Irishman’s chest. Dejected, McKinley put his head down in shame and buried his hands in his pockets as he lost his peppy posture for one that was sullen.

Continuing to drag his feet after McCullum, Marianne McKinley would try to break the silence every so often by parting his lips, occasionally he would start a syllable, but he had no idea what to say. How could he when he was given so many chances and continued to disappoint? Mister McCullum had allowed the orphaned McKinley twins shelter after Priwen saved them from a priest turned vampire that had decided to make a snack out of the boys. Charlie had been praying for help when the Guard appeared, pinning down the leech and impaling him. Convinced their prayers had been answered, the boys were eager to join the hunter’s ranks and purge the world of evil and perdition. Upon joining they began to train under the chaplain, Bishop, with the hopes of one day achieving the same title.

“Who got you into it, lad?” McCullum’s gruff voice cut the silent air and startled the boy. “Was it Hainsley?”

Immediately McKinley’s face flushed pink and he began to stutter, he did not want to answer, but his nervous stumbling gave him away. Mary was younger than the other men, and he so desperately wanted to fit in. They already called him Baby; he did not want to give them yet another reason to mock him. Relinquishing, he gave in and took a cigarette to his lips. His first attempt put a bad taste in his mouth and had his head spinning. Hainsley and his cohorts erupted in cruel laughter at the recruit’s mistake. Once settled, the older man taught him how to inhale properly. The smoke burned a path down his throat, like a fire leaving an ashen trail through a forest, causing him to wheeze and cough, much to his companion’s amusement. Mary’s smoke-filled lungs felt ablaze, as about to burst. Hardly managing to finish the cigarette (the only reason he did was to please his fellow hunters) he promised himself he would never try it again. He threw up shortly after, his stomach twisting and churning for the rest of the night. Every breath stung and reeked of tobacco, swallowing hurt, and he had lost his appetite, even if he had not, the boy felt far too sick to eat. The stench seemed to follow him for a week, and he felt as if everyone thought he was disgusting as if they could see the sickly yellow on his skin and could smell the smokey remnants of his first cigarette. Mary could not figure out for the life of him _why anyone would do this,_ and _how it was enjoyable._

Yet, when offered another by MacAvoy, he took it. This time he was ready for the charred metallic taste, the roll of his lungs, and the sensation of his throat burning. He still had to suppress a cough and had slight nausea, but he did not feel as ill as the first time. No longer caught up with choking, he could melt into the sensation. Lighting travelled down his spine, and smoke clouds overcame his head, he was swimming in nicotine, and it soaked him thoroughly and entirely, his lungs were both drowning and on fire. Jerking like his unsteady driving, the world shifted beneath him; dizzy and unable to keep his balance he leaned against a tree. 

_‘Oh,’_ he thought, staring at the swirling clouds above him, _‘This is why people smoke.’_

When his brother died something inside of Mary went with him, the cold corpse leaving a hollow prison inside his chest. The first time he noticed the impression was at Charlie’s funeral, looking over the face they shared, cold and lifeless, he had no more tears to cry, and he stood with bloodshot eyes from tears and nightmares that would not let him sleep. The tips of his fingers were cold and numb, worse than the rest of him, as he rubbed the polished wood beads of the rosary he had taken from his brother’s corpse. His legs felt as if they had no bones, swaying beneath him like he was about to keel over and die too. Then he could be thrown in the grave of his other half so they may rot together as God had intended. 

It was the kind of sadness he could feel when he took a deep breath, desperately gulping for the air Charlie would not know. A sorrow that took a dagger to the red of his heart and slit the bottom of it so he may slowly bleed out. Like an ache that filled his chest with a sea until his lungs could no longer breathe, and the water poured from his face. It was the kind of depression that turned his limbs into heavy lead and his bedsheets into shackles so he could waste night and day away. It was the kind of darkness that followed him like a shadow, albeit far deeper and far larger. 

Some days it weighed on his shoulders, pressing him towards the earth until he fell sobbing into the dirt. Other days he felt more empty than sad; he had a hole in his abdomen, and his insides were slowly pouring onto the streets. Sometimes he could almost pretend he was okay, for he was a burnt match relit to blaze before curling into ash.

For a brief moment, the sadness that had made itself a home inside his ribcage had disappeared under the blissful clouds of a nicotine high. Mary was quick to breathe another drag, to hold in the warmth and exhale a beautiful the grey death. With the third cigarette went his reluctance, until eventually, they began to burn together under a mountain of ash, thousands of paper-rolled tobacco bodies pressed to his lips and cremated in the same house fire. The rush was addictive as the chemicals he sucked into his lungs, a moment of respite and relief from the never-ending misery that overcast his once blue skies. Perhaps it was toxic, but at least he chose these clouds.

“Hm. Thought so. It’s a nasty habit, boy,” McCullum scolded.

“Yes, sir,” he whimpered, hot tears returning to pool behind his eyes. Blinking, he tried to dismiss them only for them to draw scalding trails down his pink cheeks. 

Sitting himself on a stone ledge, Geoffrey patted the spot next to him. “Come sit here. You seem like you need to talk.” He did not ask _if_ the boy wanted to talk, of course, he didn’t, but he certainly _needed_ to. 

Reluctantly, McKinley sat beside the large Irishman, carefully keeping a gap between their places. Preferably, he would be allowed to wither away in his mourning until his throat was torn out by the blunt teeth of a skal. Bishop had already been hovering over his protegé, constantly cupping his chin and pointing his face toward his own, searching his olive eyes, asking he pour his sorrows out. McKinley had never been a fan of confession; it felt like he were a leech writhing under sunlight as he slowly fell apart at the seams.

“Why would you burn yourself up inside like that?” A softness had edged its way into McCullum’s voice.

“I didn’t want the other men to think I was a baby,” Mary apologetically attempted to explain, torn between addiction and the disappointment of the man he looked up to. 

“And why do you do it now?”

“‘Cause it makes me feel better,” the boy croaked, looking away as the tears poured down his cheeks. “I see his body everywhere. I can’t sleep anymore! I can’t look in the mirror! I can’t do anything!” A hand grasped his red hair, tugging it roughly. 

“‘Aye, lad, when my father tore my mother’s throat out I saw her every time I blinked. A hell of a mess I was, I was so upset I couldn’t even cry. Y’know how bad that makes you feel? When you can’t even cry ’cause you’re so torn up inside?” 

“Yes, sir. I do,” McKinley answered with a shaky whisper. McCullum’s speech was not doing much to ease the tumultuous storm in his stomach. Guilt began to bloom in his chest where his ribs split. Here he was crying about his dead brother when McCullum had lost everything as a wee child. 

“When it came to hunting down Ian, I was terrified. Worried I couldn’t do it. But I kept thinking that if I didn’t, some other poor kid might see his mother died as mine did, and I couldn’t let that happen. He wasn’t my brother anymore, anyhow,” Geoffrey huffed.

“I wish I died instead of Charlie, he was always the better of us,” McKinley said quietly, pulling his knees to his chest and hiding his face. “He should have lived. He wasn’t a failure- a mistake- like me. He wouldn’t cry like me.”

“Is that what you think, lad?” Geoffrey asked, somehow even gentler than before.

“It’s true.” Mary felt as if his brother was somehow better than he, for, despite their identical faces, it felt as if Charlie was always the favourite and more skilled. Their poor mother had suffered a miserable tumultuous pregnancy, and was terribly ill afterwards, succumbing to malady when the twins were but five years of age. Surely she was made only to have dear Charlie and Mary was the spare, and ultimately her foley. Alas, if it were not for him, their mother would still be alive. What about Charlie? He relived that patrol so many times he could no longer tell the memory from the nightmare. Maybe he messed up somehow; maybe if he were faster, or stronger, or braver, his brother would not be rotting in the earth while he continued to live. 

“It’s not,” McCullum assured, carefully moving closer to the boy so he may wrap a comforting arm around his shuddering shoulders. “Don’t feel bad for crying, fate dealt you a shite hand, you have every right to,” he patted the recruit. “Maybe you should have died, but you didn’t, and your brother did. You’re not helping him resurrect by thinking those things, nor can you go back and change it. All you can do is keep going and chopping down leeches, so nobody else has to die, aye?” 

“Yes, sir,” McKinley said quietly, grasping his brother’s rosary so hard the cross carved into his palm.

“You’re a mighty fine recruit, Mary, and you’ll make a fine chaplain one day,” Geoffrey said, squeezing the boy.

“Yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness of this chapter, the epidemic has leeched a lot of my motivation. I don't think I would have been able to finish it without the support from the lovely people in the Pembroke Hospital discord server, which I have provided a link for below. I do hope you join; it's a very supportive community and brings me so much joy!
> 
> Discord invite link: https://discord.gg/uhCDcyU
> 
> The Priwen OCs used in this chapter belong to BlueEyedArcher, I'm just borrowing them for a bit. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are the coal that keeps my steam engine heart writing.  
> Constructive criticism is always welcome; I strive to improve.


	9. The Flock

Filthy, muddy, slush, sloshed underfoot as Doctor Jonathan Reid made his way to Sean Hampton’s Night Shelter to tend to the gentle skal’s fleecy flock. It was a disgusting mess, slurring around his expensive boots and dirtying the hems of his finely tailored trousers. Half-melted snow turned a sickly greyish-brown from London’s filthy streets, the colour of a smoggy polluted sky after bombs cut through the air and sent the urban world into the atmosphere. The wet crunching of his boots cutting through the slush was alone tonight, for the city streets were near silent. Perhaps the cold had sunk its icy fangs into the human residents, leeching their warmth and scaring them into their cosy homes before the usual monsters could. Only the truly desperate and depraved wandered outside tonight, it seemed even Priwen’s most persistent had eased back on their incessant patrolling of the midnight streets. 

As Reid approached the Night Shelter, the eyes of the residents bore into skin. He had learned to ignore the odd looks he received in the East End, but still noted how the expressions of dismay at the physician’s presence intensified around the docks; whether the eyes looked upon him full of envy and longing, relief and gratefulness, or, with spite and hatred. No one quite exemplified the latter like the dear Giselle Paxton, who marched up to the good doctor with hands on her hips immediately upon seeing him pass the gates.

“Good evening, Miss Paxton,” he greeted with a false friendliness.

“You again? What do you want?” Giselle growled the exhausted lines that bore into her face twisting into a far more of a nasty scowl upon seeing the good doctor. Despite Reid’s insistence on treating the ill of the shelter without compensation and his previous recovery the money stolen from her by Priwen, Giselle continued to despise the man purely based upon the clothes he wore and the street where he grew up. He did not blame her, for he knew what anger she must feel, drowning in poverty while he floated in an illusion of riches. Yet, he still wished she would not hate him so.

“Can you tell me how the shelter is faring?”

“Tell you what, just spend a few weeks here, and then ask me that question again,” she spat at him, eyes and teeth appearing to bulge out of her skull. “If you’re still alive, I mean.”

“Ah, well...” Reid had no idea what to say, for the retorts that came to mind were far from gentleman-like. “Thank you for your candour,” he bowed his head politely before ducking out of the conversation.

Sighing, the good doctor shook his head and released the tension he hadn’t noticed was building in fists as he stepped away from the opinionated woman. Uncurling his leather-clad fingers, he instead sought out her melancholic sister and the other residents of the shelter so that he may treat their ailments. For the most part, his profession was rewarding, watching as wilted souls raised their weary heads and recovered, holding their trust within careful palms as he put them back together. However, there would always be the few miserable patients, such as Giselle Paxton, who would never be pleased, no matter his efforts. 

Once he had tended to the woolly herd, Jonathan turned his attention to their dutiful shepherd. The Sad Saint was quietly changing some bedsheets, the thin fabric slipping between the dark stains of his bandaged fingers. Hampton’s gentle mannerisms made it seem as if he was almost lovingly caressing the stained sheets, basking in the soft texture of well-worn fabric under his bloodied and bruised fingers.

How odd it was for a tender lamb to be a shepherd himself, caring for a flock with such devotion.

“Good evening, Sean,” Jonathan greeted the skal with much more camaraderie than he did with the abhorrent Giselle.

Jumping slightly, startled by the ekon’s sudden appearance, he turned to face Jonathan, a slight smile of relief appearing on his cheeks and replacing the worrying lip. “Yes, doctor?” 

“I was just checking on you and your flock. How are things on this side of the docks?”

“Not too well, I’m afraid,” the meek skal proclaimed. The rings around his glowing eyes looked exhausted far beyond a dead man. Unfortunately, the undead never got to rest.

“How so?” Concern slipped into Jonathan’s voice as he watched the nervous creature toy with his wrapped fingers.

“I’m afraid it is a matter I’d prefer to keep between us, I do not wish to worry my flock. Please, come.” Sean glanced around nervously before motioning for Reid to follow him to the back room.

It was almost the same as Reid remembered it from the night he forced the sad saint on his knees before his holy shrine, tearing open his wrist to pour his blasphemous blood down the gentle skal’s throat. The man had already been corrupted by another, bitten into and chewed up like a cheap meal, and the doctor dared to force another violation upon his tattered soul. But what choice did Jonathan have? Cull the lamb, or let him go mad with hunger and become a wolf among his own flock? No, what Jonathan did was wrong, but it was the right choice.

“What’s troubling you, friend?” Reid asked, strolling across the room, the tips of his claws tracing the edge of a table.

“An ekon has been picking off the residents of the docks and my shelter for nearly a week and a half now,” Sean confessed. The light from the candles of his shrine illuminated his waxy, rotten skin, and setting the sadness and the guilt his unearthly yellow eyes ablaze. 

How odd it was for a creature damned to hide in darkness to remain devout to heaven’s blinding light.

“I’ve had to convince Mister Throgmorton to stay in the shelter’s vicinity to protect the sleeping residents, but tonight he insisted on going to hunt for the beast, and I fear the worst,” his voice trembled with genuine concern for the foolish ‘vampire hunter’. No doubt he would express similar worries should one of the undead under his protection wandered too far from home.

How odd it was for a wretched thing that was of rotting flesh to be pure of soul.

“And you would like me to put an end to the slaughter and bring back your vampire hunter?” Reid often found himself dutifully attending to tasks at the requests of others. If something or someone went missing, he would be sent on some quest to retrieve whatever it was. Occasionally the tasks were more mundane, such as putting up fliers for the Throgmorton. He wondered if it had become fashionable while he was gone to ask one’s doctor to complete their errands. 

“If you would be so kind,” Sean replied quietly, fumbling with the crucifix around his neck.

“Before I, go tell me has McCullum or the Guard of Priwen come near you or the shelter?” Jonathan had no idea what inspired the question; he did not even know the words slipped past his lips until he heard them himself. 

“No, not at all.”

“If they do, please send for me.” The gentleman’s voice almost sounded pleading. 

“I will.”

“Alright then, I’ll be on my way,” Reid said quickly, making a hasty escape from the shelter that suddenly felt so claustrophobic.

How odd it was for someone who had gasoline poured over him as a babe, a match brought to his body as a child, and engulfed in the flames of misfortune, to be so dedicated to extinguishing others and tending to their burns. He was like a candle built inside out, his body defiled and scorched; his soul never burned but melted into a thick pool of wax. It could cool and harden, but never return to its previous condition.

“Doctor Reid?” The skal took his attention away from his mission.

“Yes, Sean?” 

“Are you well?” The tone he used lacked accusation, soft and gentle like how he spoke to the most broken of souls.

Jonathan froze, taken off guard by the sudden question. “Isn’t it I, the doctor, who should be asking you that?” 

“You look as dead as I do, Doctor Reid. Eyes hollow, sunken, paler than death’s head, skin clinging barely clinging to your body…” The sad saint trailed off, his candlelight eyes full of concern.

The good doctor found himself at a loss of words, for Sean spoke truth with every syllable. No human dared to point out his cadaverous appearance, perhaps they were blind to it, but the sad saint could see through false appearances. The sudden acknowledgement of his deathly appearance startled Reid. Not only that, but Sean’s voice was heavy with concern and sympathy. As a doctor, he had gotten used to those sad tones, but finding himself the subject of them startled him.

“I-uh… Well, Um…”

While he fumbled for coherence, Sean remained quiet and calm. He was accustomed to hearing tragic and traumatic tales, although if he was always such a good listener, or if the trait had developed due to his work had yet to be seen.

The icy knot of embarrassment of having been picked apart by the skal began to melt, until it was hot and viscous, anger running through his body, urging him to lash out like a cornered animal.

How dare that skal try to treat him like the broken vagabonds and rotting corpses who wandered into his care! How dare he expect Jonathan to open up, cry about how hungry and angry he was all the time. The same skal he had to be force feed weeks earlier. 

“I am not part of your flock, Mister Hampton. You cannot cradle and comfort me,” Jonathan hissed.

Pliant and patient as ever, Sean Hampton allowed him to leave without another word.

\---

Running his fingers through his beard as he swiftly departed from the night shelter, he began to ponder his own situation. A vampire who was afraid to eat and a doctor who carried a sword with the full intent of using it. He, of course, wanted neither of these things. Where had the bright-eyed and ambitious boy gone to? Was he lost in the war? Or perhaps he never really existed at all, and all he was was a false memory, an idealisation, the good doctor’s family thought they knew.

If Reid was always destined to become ‘London’s Champion,’ why did he have to know the sweetness of family and joy, only to be forced to tear them apart and snap at what was left? Was it not cruel for him to have the day ripped away without a final evening to enjoy the sun’s warmth?

Presently Jonathan could only wander the streets, vision without colour and filled with shadows so he may catch a hint of vibrant red blood. Despite the hunger that lurked beneath his skin, the never-ending song of blood that called to him, he was not hunting for himself, but to save an unusual man who thought his kind to be wicked.

A shrill cry ran through the air, distinctly human, lacking the unearthly and sickly sound of a skal. Turning on his heels, Reid honed into the sound and raced towards it. Buildings passed, streaming and blurring in the corners of his vision. His desperate footfalls only slowing when the scent of blood stole his attention away. 

Tucked neatly into an alley, laying face down amidst the stinking trash was a lone body with limbs splayed out in a final fight. The dark hair, having been once neatly combed back with hair wax now slumped awkwardly, still cradling the lifeless skull. 

Bending down beside it, Jonathan’s hands brushed over the skin. The winter chill had not stolen all the heat from the body yet; it was far warmer than the vampire’s chilling touch. He grasped the corpse’s shoulder, dressed in a worn suit, and gently turned it over. Glassy eyes still wet with tears and a face full of fear stared back at him.

“Ichabod Throgmorton,” the doctor informed the empty street. The dead man’s skin was stark white; the only colour at all was the bloody flesh where his throat was torn out. Pretending to be a ‘vampire hunter extraordinaire’ was a dangerous game, surely the man knew what fate awaited him. All the same, he honestly had good intentions till the bitter end, he only wanted to help people but was too scared to act.

The good doctor could not pretend he was not fond of the man and his antics. He was harmless, like a yapping dog in a rich woman’s lap. It was amusing to listen to his dramatic descriptions of what Reid was, while the vampire assisted him in wallpapering the streets with posters warning of his own kind.

Unable to save the missing sheepdog from the wolves, Jonathan found himself standing, determined to stop the hungry beast from harming anyone else under the sad saint’s care.


End file.
